In Eternal Lines to Time
by Nytewing
Summary: 8 shorts set in the (distant and not so distant) future. Variations on a theme. The theme is this; Aziraphale and Crowley love each other more than any being has ever loved another. [Ineffable Husbands Week 2019]
1. Bees Can Dance Why Can't We?

(Day 1: Dance, Music, Poetry)

**Chapter 1: Bees Can Dance Why Can't We? **

"Oh dear, oh this is not like what I expected it would be," Aziraphale panted as he tried to match his movements to his partner's fluid cadence.

"What did you expect, angel?" Crowley asked. His voice was warm as the honeyed cider they'd been drinking before Aziraphale had this damnable idea.

"If I'm being entirely honest? Rather more like the gavotte." He knew he was pouting, but it was worth it when Crowley threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't often, even now, so many years after the apocalypse was averted and their respective sides decided a more hands-off approach was best, that he saw Crowley this carefree.

He loved it. He loved the way he could just catch glimpses of the demon's eyes behind his sunglasses, the corners crinkled with mirth and the pupils blown wide by pleasure and exertion. His hair, just brushing the base of his ears as was the fashion this decade, caught the late autumn sunlight and was set alight, burning with the same fire Aziraphale imagined was at the core of the stars his beloved had spun into existence.

Oh, spinning, that was new. He swallowed hard as Crowley's hands slid from their positions on Aziraphale's hips and pressed outward, spinning him away, away, his delicate fingers trailing along Aziraphale's outstretched arms as he went. Then, he was caught and pulled back in with another flourish.

"It's unfair, is what it is," he panted. "I thought demons didn't dance any more than angels."

Another laugh, another piece of Aziraphale's heart irrevocably, unashamedly given over to Crowley.

"We prefer disco," Crowley allowed, "But, disco doesn't lend itself towards well," his hands were back on Aziraphale's hips, guiding him to find the beat, "thiss. I took a few lessons[1]." His breath was hot on Aziraphale's face and he found himself unable to look Crowley in the eyes because the demon was wearing his glasses in deference to the humans who surrounded them. Aziraphale was not in denial about the depths of his love, he sworn after he nearly lost everything before that he would never deny himself or Crowley anything like that again, but he was still uncomfortable seeing it reflected (literally) back at himself. He still struggled with feeling worthy of the happiness he would be able to see on his own face.

The music shifted toward something faster, more upbeat, and Aziraphale started to pull away. He did not want to, of course, but he also knew they were quite at the limit of his own ability to dance without embarrassing himself. Crowley did not let him go. In fact, he tightened his hold and pulled Aziraphale closer.

"Crowley, dear," Aziraphale said, "Unless you plan on finding a number of other gentlemen who know the one dance I can do at this tempo, it's probably best if we adjourn to the buffet."

Crowley leaned in, wrapping his arms tightly enough around Aziraphale's waist that the angel was forced to shift his own arms up and around Crowley's neck. Crowley tilted his head so their foreheads touched.

"Do you want me to go find an unspecified number of other gentlemen?"

Aziraphale huffed a short laugh, "No, you're quite enough for me, love." They were swaying back and forth now, quote at odds with the upbeat music and the young people bouncing around them.

"Good," Crowley breathed into his ear, "Because, I don't think I'm very much of a gentleman."

There was a tense moment where the energy around them crackled with an unspoken _something _before Aziraphale laughed. It burst from him as first a giggle and then a short and then he couldn't stop laughing. He tilted his head forward to press it against Crowley's chest.

"That-," he managed through his laughter, "Was the cheesiest thing you've ever said to me!"

He could feel the heat radiating from Crowley's blush and knew if he looked up the demon's entire neck and face would be blazing red.

"Fine," Crowley murmured, "See if I try and tempt you again."

"Was that a temptation?" Aziraphale snickered, "Because it sounded more like a line from one of Anathema's more objectionable smu-"

"Oh look at that!" Crowley said stepping away from him and towards the buffet, "They've got those little puddings you love."

Aziraphale watched him go with a broad grin on his face. He was right, the demon's entire face and neck were flushed. He had just stepped from the dance floor to follow him when the music suddenly shifted again and his laughter returned.

Someone, likely Warlock himself, had requested "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and Crowley's inarticulate noise of protest was enough to drown out even the groans of the other guests. He noticed, however, that despite his rapid and violent gesturing to the DJ, Crowley did not drop the small plate of pastries he'd been gathering.

Aziraphale did so love that demon.

Perhaps, after partaking in the deserts, Aziraphale might convince him to show off a few more of the moves he'd learned in dance class.

* * *

[1] What he should have said was this; "Warlock told me that if I didn't take lessons I wasn't allowed to dance at the wedding because 'disco is embarrassing, Nanny' and so Crowley, unable to deny his boy anything and thinking about how lovely it would feel to surprise Aziraphale took the lessons.


	2. Bond Never Had to Sit in the Rain

A/N: There are a few mentions of Nazis in this chapter. It is a chapter about righting a wrong that they caused, but I want folks to take care of themselves. There is a summary at the end of the chapter if you want to check that out first.

Ineffable Husbands Week 2019: Day 2 - Rain

**Chapter 2: Bond Never Had to Sit in the Rain**

In retrospect, this would all seem like a very bad idea to Crowley. Or rather, the idea itself would not be bad, could never be bad, but the timing was terrible and he really (really) should have thought to mention the whole plan to Aziraphale before he was caught in the act.

It begins like this; there is a demon sitting in the shadows just off the steps of the National Gallery and bitterly cursing every weather forecaster in a ten kilometer radius for their inability to properly predict rain. It was England for someone's sake, surely rain should be the default? So that when they said it was going to be a 'lovely, sunny day so get out there and enjoy it' they really meant it and weren't just _lying through their teeth to spite him. _

So, Crowley is cold and Crowley is wet and Crowley is very, very ready for the girl to just hurry up and finish the job so he can go home and perhaps convince his angel that he needed hot cocoa and maybe a few of those little marshmallows that the Americans like so much, please and thank you. But, the girl in the museum is taking her sweet time and so he is stuck here.

Getting rained on.

A sliver of water slips beneath the collar of his stylish (and not especially water resistant) coat. He shudders and casts a baleful look at the sky. The clouds do not shift, apparently remorseless.

Then, like a ray of light through the clouds, there is a warm presence behind him. He resists the urge to groan. Right now, he might actually prefer the actual ray of sunshine through the clouds.

"Dearheart," Aziraphale says, sounding far more concerned than he really had a right to sound without knowing precisely what is happening, "Whatever are you doing sitting out here in the rain?"

"Shh," Crowley hisses, "Be quiet."

It's the middle of the night and despite the rain pounding down around them Crowley is more than a paranoid that one of the roving security guards will notice them and then the whole jig will be up before the girl can reach her goal. Aziraphale subsides for a moment before a vicious gust of wind tears its way down the steps, eliciting a violent shiver from Crowley.

"Really, Crowley," he snaps, standing straighter and taking Crowley's shoulder in his hand. "This is-"

There's a silhouette at the top of the steps, far too large to be the girl. Crowley yanks his shoulder free and drops to the ground, out of view. He looks up and sees Aziraphale standing there dressed in cream and pale blue and a fuckin' beacon to anyone who cared to look.

"Shut up!" Crowley says, "And get down here!"

It's his turn to reach up and pull on Aziraphale and the shock of it means he succeeds where the angel had failed. Aziraphale topples to the wet marble beside him, landing with a muffled thump half on top of Crowley. The useless air rushes from his lungs and he's suddenly much warmer than he had been. He shifts slightly, trying to stabilize their precarious position. Aziraphale clearly takes this to be a request that he move and the angel slides off him to sit fully on the marble. Crowley fights back the surge of bitter disappointment. This really wasn't the venue for that anyway.

Even if he had been much warmer. And drier.

Aziraphale breaks into his thoughts, "Crowley," he says, "What are you doing? Why are you here? You're going to catch your discorporation!"

Crowley rolls his eyes at that. It's been nearly three decades since the whole Apocalypse business and they haven't heard a peep from either Above or Below, he's beginning to think that even if he were to be unfortunately discorporated by a lying broadcast weatherman it wouldn't actually be that big a to do.

"I'm wiling," he says as quietly as he can manage and still be heard over the rain.

"Wiling? Wiling what? There's nothing out here save a few incredibly soggy constables," Aziraphale turns and peers into his eyes. "Constables who might be very, very interested in what you're doing."

That elicits another eye roll. Aziraphale scowls and Crowley resists the urge to do it one more time, just to be annoying. He loves Aziraphale dearly, more than he thinks he should be capable of given his lack of celestial status, but the angel is so deliciously fun to wind up.

But, the angel is starting to shiver as well and Crowley's feet have long since gone numb and really what is taking that girl so damn long.

So, he's honest.

"Art theft," he grunts.

There's a beat of silence and then, "What?" It's practically a yelp and Crowley scrambles to his knees to peek over the side of the stairs at the shadowy figure he's sure is a patrolling guard. They haven't moved. He waits a moment, watching for any sign Aziraphale had been heard. Then, he twisted and slides back to the ground.

"Do shut up, will you?" He says, "Do you _want _to deal with the bobbies? Because I really don't, that's all this night needs actually, _law enforcement _."

"I can't believe you!1" Aziraphale says, like he hasn't heard a word Crowley said, "Why are you encouraging art theft? And in this weather? The pieces will be ruined!"

"I gave them protection," Crowley says, only a tad mulishly. "Believe it or not, I have run a heist or two in my day."

Aziraphale makes a face that says very clearly he had not known that. He opens his mouth to say something, seems to think better of it and falls silent for a few long minutes. Crowley checks his watch. She's been inside for nearly half an hour. They'd agreed that he'd stick around for forty-five minutes before she was on her own. He looks at the manhole cover on the ground below Aziraphale's feet but it is stubbornly motionless.

After a few minutes (thirteen left now), Aziraphale speaks again. "What, may I ask, are you encouraging the theft of?" He says and now he actually sounds upset. Crowley is unaccountably hurt. "What is so valueless that it shouldn't be displayed for future generations, worth so little it might be hidden away in a private collection to be-"

The manhole cover shifts and Crowley scrambles to his feet.

"What for guards!" He tells Aziraphale even as he drops to the sodden ground (these pants are a lost cause) and jams his fingers into the holes atop the cover. He yanks up and away and reveals a young woman. She's suspiciously dry, though that is rapidly changing as the wind whips the rain into her face, plastering her dark hair down onto her forehead. She's grinning wildly and nods at him. Something in his chest unclenches.

"Angel," Crowley says, "A little help here?"

Aziraphale has never been able to deny him a direct request for help, or at least not in the last thirty years, and so he steps forward and clasps the girl's delicate wrists, pulling her up and out of the hole.

"Come on," Crowley says before either of the other two can speak. "There's a little cafe on the corner that'll be open for a while yet."

Soon, they're ensconced in a small private room that had mysteriously become available in the three minutes it took them to walk to the corner. Aziraphale is the picture of prim British fury as he orders a full tea service and begins delicately tasting the pastries laid before them.

"So?" Crowley asks as soon as the waiter is gone.

The girl, she's never given her name to Crowley a fact that appeals to his fondness for spy movies, pulls a small tube from the back of her pants. She carefully unscrews the top and hands it to Crowley. He takes a moment to Miracle both himself and Aziraphale clean and dry before reaching two fingers into the tube and gently extracting the rolled up painting within. With slow precision, he unrolls it to reveal a tiny oil painting of a woman in a blue velvet dress. The entire thing is no larger than his two palms side by side, but the details are striking. Especially, her eyes which are so dark they're nearly black and offset by the two points of color high on her cheeks. In her hands she holds a large scroll with tiny Hebrew letters. Her entire bearing is arresting and Crowley wishes he'd been around to know her when she lived.

"Who is she?" Aziraphale breathes. His anger has melted away as he's caught by the life sparkling in those eyes.

"My great great something grandmother," the girl says, "The laws said she wasn't allowed to be a doctor or a Rabbi or anything so she taught herself and she fell in love with an artist and he painted her."

"What was her name?" Aziraphale asks.

"Tirza bat Rochel." Crowley has only ever had two other conversations with the girl but he had never before heard her sound so proud or sure of herself. Suddenly, she looked very much like Tirza, the same flush to her cheeks and strength in her shoulders. Aziraphale caught Crowley's eyes over her head, his own filled with an apology. Crowley quirked a smile. Now, dry and sure that his mission had succeeded, he was realizing he probably should have looped Aziraphale in.

"Later," he mouthed. Aziraphale nodded.

"Well," Crowley says, "It looks like everything's in order here. Time for you to begone. I'll make sure no one ever connects this with your family."

The girl nods. She watches as Crowley slowly rerolls the painting and slides it back into the tube. Then, he places it gently into her hands.

"Good heist," he says. "Look me up if you ever want to knock over someplace for fun."

Aziraphale clears his throat, but Crowley's unrepentant smile does not dim. The girl holds out her hand and Crowley shakes it firmly.

"Thank you," she says. Then, she nods to Aziraphale, turns on her heel, and leaves without a backward glance.

Crowley and Aziraphale stay in the restaurant, enjoying the little pastries and the tea and not talking about the gallery sized elephant hovering between them. Eventually, Aziraphale sets aside his napkin and glances out the window.

"It's still coming down out there," he says, "I don't suppose you parked the Bentley nearby?"

Of course Crowley hadn't. He'd walked to the Gallery and set himself up beside the girl's exit point without a thought for the weather because he'd been told by Dave on Channel Four it was going to be nice out.

"No," he says. Aziraphale sighs.

"Well," he says, "There's really nothing for it then. Shall we?" Despite the clear annoyance simmering behind his gaze, he holds out a hand to help Crowley to his feet. His hand is gentle and he does not let go, instead he pulls the demon towards the door and out into the rain.

They walk in silence for the first few blocks. Crowley can sense that Aziraphale wants to speak but is waiting for Crowley to initiate. It's only fair, Crowley thinks, after all he's the one who initiate the _not _telling in the first place.

"She found me not to terribly long ago and asked me to watch for her," he explains to Aziraphale, as they walk home. "She said she wanted, needed to be the one to get it back but that she was afraid of guards catching her, so I was watching." And doing some light Blessing but he would never say that aloud.

"Why steal it at all? I understand that they're related but surely-"

"It was left behind when her grandfather fled Germany," Crowley says very quietly. "In the late thirties. The Nazis seized it and then the British took it at the end of the war. Her family has been petitioning the museum to have it returned since then." Though the rain is still coming down in sheets, the drops do not dare touch either of them. If asked, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale would have been able to say who was ensuring they stayed dry. In their little bubble of dry and warm, Aziraphale's hand clenches around Crowley's.

"Oh," he whispers, "Oh, dear. I had no idea." He sounds regretful and Crowley can't have that. He can't bring himself to say anything more, so instead he steps closer and lets go of Aziraphale's hand to wrap his arm around the angel's waist and pull him close. Aziraphale leans into the walking embrace. Soon, sooner than either would like, the bookshop comes into view.

Just before they start up the steps, Aziraphale reaches out with one hand and pats the side of Crowley's face. "This was a perfectly diabolical thing for you to do, dear." When he says diabolical, they both hear 'nice' but neither says anything.

This thing is, with his angel at his side and the sounds of rain around them and an old wrong having been righted, well, Crowley maybe doesn't mind being nice. Not if it ends this happily for all involved. Well, perhaps all involved except the National Gallery. But, that was neither here nor there.

* * *

Summary: Crowley helps a young Jewish woman steal a painting from the National Gallery in London. The painting is of one of her ancestors and was lost when her grandfather had to flee Germany during the 1930s. The Nazis seized the painting and when they were defeated the British took the painting and placed it in the museum. The museum has been refusing to give it back to the family ever since so the girl seeks out a person she's heard of helping with things like this. They are successful and the painting is returned to her family.


	3. Set the Teeth

A/N: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - Day 3: Fall

**Chapter 3: Set the Teeth**

It's Hell, he thinks, actual, literal Hell. Or, no, that's not quite true. Though he always, always enjoyed the literary extension of the meaning of 'literal' into precisely the opposite of the intended semantics. It's such an odd phenomena, the way humans have rebelled against a variation that has been stable for at least the last few hundred years, really the entirety of the Early Modern to Contemporary English period[1]. He wondered if-

A tree, stressed beyond what mere cellulose might contain, explodes in a fiery shower of splinters and sparks. He flinches away. A few sparks land on his waistcoat, but they don't dare do more than smolder.

So, it's figuratively (and literally is the intensification sense of the word) Hell and Aziraphale would like very much to be gone from here. The fire had begun nearly three weeks ago but the best estimation available to humans. Aziraphale knows it was more like twenty-two days, seven hours, fourteen minutes and an ever increasing number of seconds ago, though he's not about to correct anyone. Not when they're all as tired and hopeless as they are. Everywhere he goes he finds firefighters in varying stages of despair. They're slumped across charred logs, trying to catch their breath before plunging back in (Once more unto the breach, his ever unhelpful mind supplies). They're gathered in little clumps around other volunteers carrying cool water and little snacks. They're operating hoses as they shout bleak jokes and reports back and forth.

e loves them all so very much. Aziraphale has always marveled at the human ability to hold up under such immense pressure. It's actually why he's here. Word of the fires had reached his little corner of London and he took one look at the news before deciding they could use a little divine inspiration. So, he kissed Crowley on the nose and departed London with all haste.

Now, less than three days later he half wishes he had thought to ask Crowley for company. It's hot and miserable and he's tired of watching the humans fail despite their best efforts. His other half (the half in his soul and not currently in London) is more than a little pleased that Crowley has not been subjected to something that Aziraphale knows without a shadow of a doubt would elicit terrible memories of the Fall and the loss of the Host. So, as much as he wants company, as much as he would love to have Crowley there to lean on, to be able to draw from the core of strength that runs through the demon like steel, he will not ask that of him.

He turns to plunge back into the fray and hears it. The humans have all started shouting. They're panicked, scrambling away from the edge of the blaze and wildly gesturing for everyone else to back up and away. Aziraphale, never one to do as he's told the first time, takes a few steps forward, attempting to peer through the smoke and haze to find what's distressed the humans so.

He doesn't see anything. He starts to turn back to ask them what's the matter but never gets the chance. The ground falls away from him, sending him into a tumbling descent. He's buffeted on all sides by the swirling winds of the inferno and is forced to clench his eyes closed when sparks explode around him.

He hits the ground with a painful thud and a grunt. He lays there for a moment. He can't hear the humans anymore, though he's sure they are still shouting and scrambling about above. He hopes they aren't fooling enough to attempt a rescue. After a bit, he levers himself to a sitting position, wincing at all the new ways his corporation protests its treatment.

He was wrong before. That wasn't Hell. This is.

If it weren't for gravity pinning him to the earth, he would have no idea what was up or down or any of it. As it is that's about all he knows. Worse, the way the winds swirl about, pulling the flames and smoke into a wild cyclone around him is disorienting enough that he's not actually sure which direction is _out _of the fire. Sure, there's straight up, but even an angel who never Fell knows flying through fire is bad for one's wings. Other than that, he's at a loss. He can't just Miracle himself to the surface, the humans saw him fall and he doesn't have enough energy after three solid days of Miracling hope into their hearts to alter every memory in the brigade.

He spreads his wings, flying seems to be the only solution. Except, except, as soon as his wings are unfurled a spark lands on the left and he's suddenly swamped with grief.

Crowley did this. Aziraphale knows at the very core of his being that Crowley would have tried to fly away rather than Fall. He might act nonchalant about the whole thing, but Aziraphale has seen him flinch away from flames before. He wants very badly to be holding Crowley right now. He wants to kiss his hair and his nose and tell him he'll never have to fly through fire again, because this is terrible and Aziraphale doesn't want, has never wanted, that for his beloved.

He chokes back a sob, tucking his wings in as close to his sides as he can manage, and his phone rings.

He pauses and blinks.

He's not particularly up on how modern technology works, and in fact only uses the damnable device for getting in contact with Crowley and keeping up with their more mortal friends, but he's sure these conditions should preclude-

It rings again. He curses himself and scrambles to pull it from his pocket.

The third ring is fading away by the time he managed to mash his thumb on the answer button.

"Hello," he breathes, then winces. He hadn't realized until that moment just how ragged his throat was. He really should have stopped breathing hours ago.

"Angel, where are you?" Crowley's voice is two steps above snarl and everything in Aziraphale relaxes.

For the briefest of moments, Aziraphale wants to lie. He wants to tell Crowley that he's just popped over to some far away country for some food he knows Crowley doesn't like. But, he'd promised himself to never lie to the demon again. Not after the whole AntiChrist location debacle.

So, instead he swallows and closes his eyes. He can still see the flames around him, even through the closed lids.

"I'm afraid I've made a rather silly mistake," he says with a water chuckle.

"Where. Are. You." There's the demon Aziraphale knows frightens the Archangels just a bit.

"You know those fires on the news," he says.

"You didn't," Crowley groans. Aziraphale can picture the way he's running his hand through his hair, exasperated and worried and so very Crowley. He loved him so much it hurts sometimes.

"Ah, well," he finally says after a moment in which all he can hear is the roar of the flames. There are a few dull pops that he knows are other trees. "I thought I could help."

"I'll be there soon."

"Okay," Aziraphale says. He curses himself because he's too weak to tell Crowley to stay away. He's afraid and it's very hot and for the first time he thinks about why angels were fairly universally afraid of fire.

"Talk to me," Crowley says, "Tell me what you've been doing."

So Aziraphale talks, he tells Crowley about the humans and how brave they are and how all Aziraphale wanted was to help them. He talks about how the humans accepted his help but that they didn't really need it and how happy that makes him, because he loves humans and he loves seeing them be strong on their own. He talks about how the ground is getting hotter and the air thinner and hears Crowley curse just a bit them.

He very carefully doesn't talk about the only thing he can really think about. He doesn't say anything about how he's wondering if this was what falling was like, or if it was worse. Is it worse when the fire is made of sulfur and the ashes are all that's left of your own wings. He thinks it probably is, but he will never ask.

He's just starting to talk about how badly he would like a glass of water when Crowley says, "Shush for a moment. I need to concentrate." The other end of the phone goes silent and then there's a sharp gasp and he can see a sleek black form plummeting through the flames towards him. His heart leaps to his throat.

Oh, so that's what Falling had looked like.

He thinks, but does not say, that's its beautiful. Crowley's beautiful.

Then, Crowley is there. He's slightly disheveled, not even his impenetrable aura of cool can survive conditions like this is seems. But he's got a smile and an outstretched hand for Aziraphale.

"Hullo," he says, "You called for a lift?"

"Hello dearest," Aziraphale says only a little shakily. Crowley gives him a good once over before nodding and pulling Aziraphale to his side.

"Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Then they're in the air and Aziraphale is very glad he had not attempted to fly on his own. This is like no flying he's ever done before. The winds off the fire are unpredictable and strong, buffeting Crowley back and forth with careless strength. The demon appears unbothered and it occurs to Aziraphale that he likely has quite a bit of practice flying in these conditions in Hell. Aziraphale holds tighter to his demon.

Soon, sooner than Aziraphale might have hoped, they are above the flames and angling towards the solid soil a safe distance away from the collapse. Aziraphale spares a glance back at the blaze. He's shocked by the extent of the damage from above. The entire forest is gone, he realizes. The only thing the humans can do now is try to stop it from spreading further.

"I can't believe you did that," Aziraphale says as they approach the ground and he finds himself more able to think of things beyond the excitation of electrons to plasma. "You shouldn't have."

"And why not?" Crowley snaps. "So help me, angel, if you say you're not worth-"

"No, no," Aziraphale smiles into Crowley's side. It's not a happy smile, more the grim curl of lips that can only come from a long trod disagreement. "Nothing like that. I'm just sorry you had to relive something so traumatic because I wasn't paying attention."

Crowley looks confused. His wings are still steadily adjusting to the volatile air around them. It's a display of competence that Aziraphale can't help but find attractive.

"What?"

Aziraphale warms to the conversation, "What I mean is, I love you, dearest, and I would never want you to put yourself through something like that for my sake."

"Something like what?" Crowley says slowly. They've landed ow, but the humans don't appear to have noticed. The ground that collapsed under Aziraphale formed a natural fire break and now the humans have collapsed in exhausted piles, taking advantage of the reprieve while it exists.

"You know!"

"Pretend I don't," Crowley says. He hasn't let go of Aziraphale's hand and the angel pulls it up to kiss the knuckles.

"The, oh, you know," Aziraphale took a deep breath and ordered his corporation not to cough at the plume of smoke he inhaled. "The Fall."

Crowley goes very still for a split second, too short a period for human eyes to detect but Aziraphale sees it and his stomach drops. Oh, he'd known this was bad and here he was trying to make Crowley talk about it.

"You think I care about that?" Crowley asked.

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to be confused. Of course Crowley cared about the Fall, it was a gaping wound neither of them dared touch.

"Yes?" He asked.

"And you think this fire is what that was like?" There's a little smile on Crowley's face now and Aziraphale could not be more lost.

He nods.

Crowley snorts and steps away from Aziraphale. He stands looking out at the first for a long few seconds. Entire eternities pass for Aziraphale who has no idea what the gentle curve of Crowley's shoulders or that tiny lip curl means in this context.

Finally, Crowley turns back to him.

"Aziraphale, all I was thinking about was that stupid pie in the refrigerator," he says. "I hate blueberry pie, you know that. I came around the bookshop and you weren't there and then you sounded scared on the phone and all I could think was that if something happened to you there wouldn't be anyone to eat that damn pie."

"You- you were thinking about a pie that cost three pounds fifty?" It's absurd. The pie isn't even that good. Aziraphale bought it because the woman at the farmer's market looked upset no one was buying her pies.

"I was," Crowley says.

"Oh."

He crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around Crowley, yanking him close and holding him tight.

"I love you," he says, "I'll eat the pie tonight."

Crowley laughs, "Thank you, angel." Then, much more quietly, "I love you, too."

Neither of them eats the pie. It really is quite terrible and Crowley takes great pleasure in both throwing it in the trash and using it as a threat to elicit a promise from Aziraphale that he won't be diving into anymore burning forests without Crowley by his side.

It's not a hard promise to make. There isn't anywhere on Earth he doesn't want to experience with Crowley by his side; burning forests included.

* * *

[1] The first written usage of 'literally' to mean 'figuratively' actually occurred in 1698 in _A Preservative Against Socinianism _by Jonathon Edwards. Aside from containing a notable moment in adverbial development, it was a surprisingly dry tome given the fraught theological discussions from which it spun. Naturally, Aziraphale has three copies.


	4. We Progress We Profess

**Chapter 4: We Progress We Profess**

The first thing Aziraphale notices about the demon Crawly is the way the scent of the Garden clings to him. It's a heady mix of rich loam, new growth, and an ever so slightly astringent thread of something Aziraphale doesn't know the name of yet (if indeed Adam has gotten around to naming whatever it is). It is not an entirely unpleasant aroma, despite the loathsome nature of the demon himself. He finds himself taking deeper breaths than are strictly necessary and can't bring himself to stop. It's the smell of life and new growth and it's so incongruous with a demon (who really should smell like brimstone and blood and bone) that he's less harsh than he should be when the demon finally speaks.

When the rain starts, Aziraphale lifts his wing and shelters the demon and tells himself it's a selfish act because if the rain washes away the smell of the garden then he might have to endure the smell of Hell.

He takes another deep breath.

* * *

At Golgotha, as he tries to block the sounds of a young man's pain from his ears and his heart, he hears Crowley for the first time. Of course, he's heard her before. But this is different. Before the demon had always been only an adversary, an opponent to be sparred with, either verbally or physically. Now, now she stands at his side, veil drawn back just to the edge of propriety and face haggard with grief.

"I showed him all the Kingdoms of the world," she says and her voice is ragged. Then, as night begins to fall and the cries that fill the air begin to peter out to nothing more than gasped pleas for mercy, "I wasn't supposed to be the one to tempt him. But, I-" Her voice breaks and Aziraphale can't bring himself to look at her. "I did not want it to be unpleasant for him. I thought he deserved to see the world he would be saving."

It's an uncomfortably kind gesture from a demon, Aziraphale thinks. Worse than that, he hears just how truthful she is being. He knows that lying is part and parcel with being a demon and is sure that Crowley has lied to him more than she's told the truth. But, this sounds like the truth.

Aziraphale looks to the man dying on the cross.

"Thank you," he says and means it.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. "No need for that," she says. "They had some no name assigned to the job and they couldn't have tempted him right. We can't have your side winning because of demonic incompetence."

Despite the situation, that brings a tiny smile to Aziraphale's face. "No, we can't have that."

* * *

Aziraphale has never been able to not look at Crowley for long. The demons is a magnet, the gravity around which Aziraphale's gaze orbits.

Crowley is drinking terrible wine in Rome and Aziraphale can't look away from the way his hands grip his mug.

He's snickering as he loosens the legs of chairs in Parliament and Aziraphale's eyes are trapped on the graceful dance of his feet about the space.

He's stumbling and then sauntering from the burning wreckage of the only thing (aside from Aziraphale) he's ever loved and Aziraphale has new eyes and finding he loves looking just the same.

He loves looking.

He looks at the place where Crowley's collarbones rise from his skin, at the sparkle in his eyes when he thinks no one can see, at the delicate way she holds the little boy they've agreed to raise together.

But, what he loves best is when he catches Crowley looking at him and the demon, embarrassed by the soft expression on his face, turns away as soon as possible.

Aziraphale loves looking long before he realizes he loves who he's looking at.

* * *

They've touched many times over the last millennia, it's practically casual at this point really. But, there has never before been such blatant intent behind the way Crowley's cool fingers touch the base of his throat. A gentle pressure, just enough to ensure Aziraphale's heart and lungs are suddenly out of sync with each other. The fingers trail from his throat to the edge of his jaw and Aziraphale lungs stop working entirely.

Crowley steps closer, the hand not currently touching Aziraphale comes up and hovers close enough to his cheek that he can feel the disturbance in the air.

"You're really here," Crowley says, finally. He swallows. His eyes haven't stopped tracking over Aziraphale's face since they stepped into Crowley's apartment, like he's trying to memorize each and every imperfection of the corporation, looking for differences or damage or anything that he doesn't already know. Now, in the dim light filtering in from outside, Aziraphale realized what this is.

"Dearest," he whispers. "Of course I'm here. Heaven itself could not keep me from your side when you were in such grave danger."

But, Crowley shakes his head. The hand touching Aziraphale moves, shifting so his thumb brushes Aziraphale's cheek and the fingers curl back towards his hair. He tries to resist the urge to lean into the feeling.

"No," Crowley says, "I thought-" he pauses and swallows back something, his throat working and his expression bleak. "I thought you'd died. I can't tell the difference between Hellfire and normal fire, it's all normal for demons and your shop burned and I could sense that something more than human had been there and I just knew-"

Aziraphale grabs the hand that still hovers beside his face. He clasps it tightly and presses a firm kiss to the center of Crowley's palm. The demon shudders.

"As I said, there is nothing in the wide Universe that could keep me from you, Crowley."

Crowley closes his eyes, his lips are so tightly pressed together that they've gone white. Aziraphale smiles. It's hard not to feel his heart swell in his chest when faced with such clear evidence of his demon's love. He let's go of Crowley's hand, but doesn't give the demon time to do more than breathe in sharply before he takes his face in his hands. He pulls Crowley's face down slightly, tilting his head forward. He wants to kiss those lips, to press his own against them and reassure Crowley that he's here and he's alive and they made it. But, Crowley is shaking in his hold and Aziraphale has never kissed him before and he doesn't want their first to be so tainted by fear and loss.

So, he brushes his lips across Crowley's forehead and says, "They cannot take me away from you."

* * *

When he does kiss Crowley for the first time it's more than he ever could have wanted. They're walking back from the Ritz, full and happy and wildly pleased by the way the events of the last week had gone. Crowley does not hesitate to take his hand as they enter the park. It's later than their normal visits, but the ducks still paddle about and the sound of the breeze through the trees is still familiar. What's not familiar is the charged atmosphere. Normally, there are children and animals running about, but now it's almost exclusively couples.

It occurs to Aziraphale as they slow to a stop beside the water that, with their fingers interlaced and their shoulders brushing, they probably look like one of those couples. He turns to say something along those lines to Crowley and find his words frozen in his throat. Crowley is looking at him with open, wild affection.

"Oh," he manages instead.

A smile wends its way across Crowley's face and the warm feeling in Aziraphale's chest grows, filling his lungs and his heart and his stomach and the empty spaces around the core of his true form and the soft down feathers he always forgot to preen and-

And Crowley is kissing him.

And all Aziraphale can taste is the champagne they had shared. The kiss is not long, not nearly enough for the culmination of six thousand years of apathy becoming acceptance becoming friendship becoming love. But, it is long enough to be a promise. A promise of more and more, forever. The world around them slips away and soon all Aziraphale knows is heat cracked lips and the taste of champagne and, below that, the same _something_ he'd been unable to identify so long ago in the garden. It's a something he now knows is entirely Crowley and he's ecstatic to realize that he gets to spend the next forever figuring out what exactly it is.

When Crowley pulls away, Aziraphale releases a rather embarrassing whimper. The demon grins, tilting his forehead against Aziraphale's.

"Greedy," he whispers.

Aziraphale chuckles and steals another quick kiss. "Tempted," he says.


	5. Plant Your Ground

A/N: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - Day 5 - Fight. This chapter takes place during the raising Warlock years, as such Crowley is referred to with she/her pronouns. However, I will be using the name Crowley since that's what Aziraphale uses when they're not around Warlock during that time period. Perhaps she's using Ashtoreth J. Crowley as a full name? (you know what, actually that's what I'm calling my new headcanon)

**Chapter 5: Plant Your Ground**

There were times when Crowley had to remind herself that she loved Aziraphale and had done for quite a while[1]. Most days, most centuries really, it's easy to love the kind-hearted angel. Most days, she wants nothing more than to gather him up in her arms and explain in exhaustive detail exactly why he's too Good for Above and keep talking until he's too tired to argue and just accepts that he is loved. Most days, it's all she can do not to drop a kiss on his head as she passes or linger just a few moments longer in the little cottage he's been afforded as the estate gardener.

Today, however, is not one of those days.

Why, _why, _Crowley laments, did they choose this arrangement? Why is she the nanny and he the gardener? Oh, she knows their logic at the time; she's more well versed in the nuances of modern human society, she's more patient with children, and so on. But, those reasons pale in comparison to the frustration that seeps up through her very bones when she takes little Warlock out to play and sees the affront that is Aziraphale's gardening technique.

He's been telling their three-year-old demon spawn that slugs are friends. Friends! As if the little bastards wouldn't destroy any seedling that dared pop up as spring approached. Worse, he seems to be purposely ignoring the gentle hints Crowley had been leaving about the gardens about proper soil aeration and when it's appropriate to water and fertilize[2].

And today, oh her throat tightens with annoyance just thinking it, today the angel had had the gall, the pure unmitigated chutzpah to place a mint plant _in the ground_.

The ground!

Living, honest to wickedness, _mint_.

It's staggering.

So, she sends a rather strongly worded note down with one of the cooks and is planning to give Aziraphale a good talking-to as soon as she is free from her nanny duties for the night. Except, the damn angel shows up early, when she's only just managed to get Warlock down for the night.

Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to leave the room, trying to indicate that she'll be along in a moment. Aziraphale crosses his arms, a scowl painted across the ridiculous face he's chosen for this misadventure. He shakes his head. Crowley feels her own frown deepen. She tilts her head so her eyes are visible and very pointedly looks down at Warlock. The boy is hugging a stuffed plague bacteria Crowley acquired for him a few weeks ago and is, mercifully, still asleep. She's not sure she can handle him waking up again. He's been a holy/hellish terror the last few weeks and though she's proud that her tutelage is clearly paying off, she's also exhausted. Running around after a child who only just learned to walk without walls or other support is far more tiring than it should be. In fact, she's even changed out her stern heels for more practical flats that won't dare twist on her when she's obliged to catch a bolting child.

Aziraphale does not appear to care that he's risking waking the boy and eliciting a meltdown. In fact, he has a very familiar expression on his face and Crowley resists the urge to groan aloud.

Something that Crowley thinks both Above and Below forget is that Aziraphale was a warrior, you don't choose just anyone to guard the Gate of Eden after all. It's been centuries since the angel held a weapon of any sort that Crowley knows of, but she remembers. They never actually fought as knights in the dreary days of the round table and Arthur's rampant optimism, but that's probably for the best. Crowley was not, and never had been, skilled with a blade. It would have been a damn shame to be discorporated and ruin such lovely armor, to say nothing of how guilty she knew Aziraphale would have felt. And that is how any fight would have ended; with her rapid and guaranteed discorporation. There were rumors of the prowess with which Arthur fought, rumors only fueled by the fact that his techniques were strange and ancient, said to be handed down from the Heavens themselves. Crowley knew that was not quite the truth, the Heavens were not involved, but Aziraphale wore his sword with the casual ease of one with long experience.

Now, standing on either side of young Warlock's bed, Crowley can see that same determination in Aziraphale's eyes. It is infuriating, maddening, enough to drive Crowley to distraction. It is also monstrously attractive and she has never been more glad for the makeup which hides her blush.

Aziraphale holds up first the note she'd sent and then the copy of "Gardening for Dummies" she'd left on his pillow. He does not look amused by either item. Crowley is willing to admit that the note had been, perhaps, a tad terse. But, _mint. _

She shrugs as if to say, _what of it?_

He gestures expansively, but his meaning is lost as the book hits the dangling metallic sculpture Crowley and Warlock spent last week crafting. There is a single moment of still silence before the entire thing collapses with a crash. Warlock bolts upright and Crowley allows the groan. Warlock looks between them, confused and clearly gearing up to begin crying.

"Just perfect," she hisses, "That will be all, Brother Francis."

Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley scoops Warlock up in her arms, already rocking back and forth, trying to head the fit off at the pass.

"Miss Ashtoreth," he says slowly and he still sounds annoyed, the lines are still etched deeply on either side of his mouth.

Crowley cuts him off. "Francis," she says, "Frankly, I don't give a damn what you're about to say. You lost the right to say anything when you planted that vile thing in the ground. The slugs I could tolerate, even the over watering and the kind words are almost endearing. But, I will be damned again if I allow you to ruin the entire garden with a single plant."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, "You're being a tad over-dramatic, my dear."

"I am not!" She practically snarls. Warlock shifts against her and she takes a moment to calm herself before continuing, "If you would read even a single one of the many, many books I have acquired for you this wouldn't be a surprise!"

She's really not sure why this bothers her so much. The gardens are not her responsibility. The Dowlings prefer the grounds to be far too cultivated for her tastes anyway. She likes gardens that look as if they belong in the place they grow. The plants should be perfect or face the consequences, but not so neatly arranged or tame. Aziraphale is looking at her with a contemplative expression on his face and suddenly, Crowley feels very seen in a way she's not entirely comfortable with.

She busys herself with Warlock, tilting him up and back over and over, lulling him back towards sleep. Without realizing it, she's started humming.

After a few moments, Aziraphale says, very quietly, "I'll remove the mint, dear. I thought it would be a nice plant for Warlock. He keeps trying to eat the roses."

Oh.

Crowley loves Aziraphale and most days she can't get enough of him. Her sudden and confusing ire over the plants melts away. Aziraphale had chosen mint because he thought their god/devilchild would like it.

That's, well, that's a mistake she can forgive. That's a mistake she doesn't even have to forgive because it's endearing and kind and she's so gone on the damn angel it's ridiculous.

"Thank you," she says, feeling rather off-kilter. Warlock has started to draft off again, so she shifts to a sitting position at the edge of the bed. She slides the boy from her arms and back into the little nest at the center he preferred.

Aziraphale watches her for a bit longer before sighing and turning to leave.

"Francis, dear," she says. He pauses in the doorway, "Perhaps lavender would be a good replacement for the mint. Warlock is on a purple kick right now."

"I will look into it," Aziraphale says and now she can hear the smile. The disconcerting sensation of being seen is still lingering, but it's alright when she can make her angel smile.

The door snicks shut behind him.

"Mint," Crowley whispers to Warlock. The toddler smacks his lips and curls tighter around his reclaimed plushy bacteria. Crowley smiles.

* * *

[1] Really for the entirety of what might be called 'while' since that word denotes the existence of time and Crowley met the angel only a spare few moments after the universal clock began ticking

[2] These hints take the form of a series of increasingly pointed volumes on plant care. The most recent was from the "for Dummies" collection and Crowley refused to acknowledge that it might have been over the line.


	6. Rein It In Old Chap

**Chapter 6: Rein It In Old Chap**

Crowley supposes he should hate the Roman Empire on principle, they are heralds of the exact kind of order and peace that he's been told to prevent after all. But, he finds that impossible given just how many ways they've made his life easier. The Romans regulate everything and that makes it very easy for Crowley to enact large scale evil with very little effort. Why torment a single person into sinning enough for below when he can simply pay a senator to advocate for building the new bathhouses in the least convenient location? Then, he simply watches as every single person seeking a good soak is forced to travel out of their way. Both the trip and the reduced time to relax leave them frustrated and short tempered and they carry that with them into every interaction for the rest of the day, spreading little hints of discontent everywhere they go. This sort of low-yield, wide-net temptation is a new thing he's trying this century and so far it seems to be working.

Professionally, Rome has been good to him. Or at least, Rome has been neutral and Crowley is just very good at shifting neutral towards good (or what a demon would consider 'good', which is typically what most might call 'explicitly not good').

Otherwise, it's all a bit of a nightmare.

The problem is this; Crowley dislikes horses. They've never liked him, something about the faint scent of brimstone he thinks, and seem to go out of their way to make his life a living Hell[1] when he's obligated to ride one.

They stamp and snort and rear and on occasion scream and he hates every moment of it. He hates that they are so afraid and that there is nothing he can do to alleviate that fear. There are no demonic miracles that can sooth animals, after all. More than that, he hates that their instinctive fear reminds him of exactly what he lost when he was expelled from the Host. Because the fact is this; horses do not fear angels and Aziraphale appears to have none of these issues on the few occasions Crowley spots him riding.

In fact, the angel is currently approaching at a rapid trot. His stance is easy on the horse, relaxed and moving with the animal and Crowley scowls. It's just not fair. He knows what Aziraphale thinks of horses, knows the angel finds them distasteful at best and outright offensive at worst.

Crowley dislikes horses because he kills them and Crowley also thinks they're lovely, though he wouldn't be caught dead saying the word aloud. That would be a quick ticket to a rapid and permanent stay in the deepest levels of the Pit.

The angel comes closer and now Crowley can see the frown on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he practically snaps as soon as he is close enough to be heard. The shorter the distance between them, the more unsettled Aziraphale's horse becomes. Crowley's foul mood curdles further towards fully sour. He grips his horse's lead tighter as the animal's eyes roll wildly in its head. Its breath is heaving, short rapid pants that never fully fill its lungs. It won't last long this stressed out.

"Orders," he says shortly. "There's a do-gooder about these parts I supposed to be discouraging." Then, realizing that that might be taken as a threat when the angel slows his approach, he sighs, "A human do-gooder."

"Well," Aziraphale says, "That's unfortunate. I'm meant to be encouraging a rather motivated young man to continue his good deeds." Crowley hums a response, but his attention is far too preoccupied with the horse suddenly shifting its weight back and rearing, attempting to remove him entirely.

"What is the matter with that animal," Aziraphale says, distaste for them clear in his voice. From the corner of his eye, Crowley can see the way the angel is shifting in his own saddle as his horse nervously taps back and forth. Crowley has harbored an unfortunate fondness for Aziraphale for a very long time, but at times like this, when the differences between their very natures are so clear, it's hard to remember to be charitable.

"Me," he snaps. Through sheer force of will he manages to get the horse back on four legs. He can feel its heart straining now and has to shove back the ocean of grief that wants to overcome him. He's killed so many horses just by being near them. After the first few he tried petitioning the Dark Council for more time to reach his assignments or, barring that, permission to fly to them. But, each request had been denied. They couldn't be bothered to approve the level of miracle work that would be required to hide so many flights and they needed the souls as fast as possible, after all, Above did not have these issues with travel.

He tries to pat the horse's shoulder soothingly when he feels a shudder travel through it, but his touch only makes the problem worse.

"They don't like demons?" Aziraphale says, finally catching on. He looks down at his own steed, so placid until this moment and his eyes widen in realization. "That horse is about to die."

The words, so blatant and clear, are knives in Crowley's chest.

"Yes," he says as quietly as he can manage. "But I am still at least a day's ride out from the assignment and Hastur is impatient. I cannot be late again." His hand twitches towards another soothing pat, but he manages to stop himself in time.

The angel is very quiet for a long few minutes before he speaks again. "Perhaps I might help?"

"There's nothing you can do, angel," Crowley says and he knows he sounds defeated, but its just not fair. Aziraphale doesn't like horses and yet he doesn't hurt them simply by existing near them and Crowley is death on two legs.

There is another silence, this one significantly more uncomfortable than the last. Then, Aziraphale swings his leg over his saddle and slides to the ground. He touches his horse's head and the animal trots a few meters away, visibly relaxing the further it gets from Crowley. Aziraphale approaches very slowly, circling around so he's never in range of the ailing horse's hooves.

"May I?" he asks when he's reached the head. He's looking up at Crowley with a completely unreadable expression and Crowley's stomach is doing very odd things. Unable to speak, Crowley nods.

Aziraphale reaches out and brushes his fingers across the horse's nose. He grimaces slightly when he touches the foam left behind by its frantic breathing, but does not hesitate otherwise.

"Hello there," he says very softly. Crowley winces. There is a thread of divine intent behind those words. It's not enough to truly hurt him, especially not when directed at another being, but it's certainly not pleasant. The horse's breath slows into something approaching a normal rhythm for the first time since Crowley picked it out of the stables.

"You're a very good beast," Aziraphale continues, "carrying a foul field like this one so very far." Despite his own dark thoughts, Crowley cannot find it in himself to be hurt or offended, not when Aziraphale's voice is filled with something that might be fondness if he was not an angel and Crowley was not a demon.

The horse's heart rate begins to steady.

"That's it," Aziraphale practically breathes. He's stroking the horse's neck now and Crowley's own breath catches in his chest. It really was a good thing Aziraphale had no idea the sort of power he wielded over him.

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, his huge blue eyes peering through thick lashes. Crowley curses his traitorous heart and tries very hard to maintain his scowl.

"Is that it?" he bites out, "A few soft words and suddenly I'm not the Death of Horses?"

Aziraphale shrugs, an unusually casual gesture from the angel. "I don't know," he says. "I'm not one to spend any more time than necessary around the beasts. But, I have never had a horse die on me, so I thought I could give this one a few blessings and it live long enough to see you to your destination."

Crowley grunts in response. He can't find the words to respond in anyway that's appropriate for their (non-existent) relationship. So, instead he nods as politely as he can manage and jabs his heels into the horse's side, sending it leaping away and into a ground-eating canter. It feels as if he's left the better part of his soul behind as he rides away.

It will not be until many, many years later that he manages to ask Aziraphale why the angel helped him that day. Surely it would have been better for Crowley to be delayed in his task? Aziraphale will smile and pour Crowley another glass of wine.

"Oh, of course that would have been easier," he will say, "But, and you'll have to forgive me for saying this, my dear, you looked rather fragile."

Crowley will sputter and take a too large swallow of wine. "I am not fragile," he'll protest.

Aziraphale's smile will turn gentle, the same smile he gave the imperiled horse all those years before. He'll reach out and pat the side of Crowley's face only a little clumsily (they will have been drinking a rather long time by that point).

"Crowley," he'll say, "I cannot fathom the reason why, but you like those dreadful creatures and it was clearly paining you to cause yours such hurt. I could not, in good conscience, allow one of God's creatures to suffer so."

Crowley, who will not yet be ready to accept that Aziraphale might love him much less God herself, will assume that Aziraphale means the horse.

Aziraphale will not mean the horse. He vowed eons ago that if he might aide Crowley without harming his own side's cause then he would do so and strengthening a horse against demon-induced heart failure is such a small thing.

But, he will not say that.

Instead he will nod and push Crowley's glass closer to his hand.

"Drink up, dear," he'll say, "We still have that delightful _Domaine Leroy Chambertin Grand Cru_ to sample."

Crowley will drink up and he will fall a little more in love.

* * *

[1] If the esteemed reader will pardon the expression.


	7. Memoria Platyrhynchos

A/N: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? For you are a duck and you are raising some existential questions I'd rather not face just now. (Ineffable Husbands Week 2019: Day 7 - Destiny/Ineffable)

**Chapter 7: Memoria Platyrhynchos**

"Do you think anyone actually knows what ducks are for?" Crowley asks. He's leaned against the base of his favorite tree, a sturdy apple that staunchly refused to produce fruit no matter his best efforts, with his head tilted back and his eyes half-lidded behind the ever present sunglasses.

"What?" Aziraphale has not been listening. He's halfway through the book the Tadfield Book Club will be discussing next week. It's just getting to the good bits and he'll be the first to admit he's not paying Crowley the attention he normally might.

"Ducks," Crowley gestures languidly to the small pond at the base of their property. "Do you think there's anyone who knows what they're for?"

Aziraphale would have liked to smile and answer Crowley's question, but he cannot because, without consent or forewarning, he's been swept up in a tide of memories long since locked away. Memories from before time began, from before the Earth was more than a mere twinkle in God's proverbial eye.

Memories from before the Fall.

"Do you think," the angel with stars in their hair and fire in their eyes asks, "there's anyone but the big lady herself who knows the Plan?"

Aziraphale, the angel who will one day guard the Gates of Eden laughs. "No," they say, "I don't believe we're meant to."

The other angel, Aziraphale's dearest and closest companion, scowls. In those days, long before anything truly negative had been invented, a scowl was a rare and treasured thing. Aziraphale marvels at the way it pulls on their friend's mouth, tugging the corners down. In a Universe filled with beauty, this expression is suddenly one of the most singularly beautiful things Aziraphale has ever seen.

This development is nothing new. Aziraphale loves their friend with every fiber of their being. The other angel is light and laughter and never ending questions that burbled out like water from those new 'brook' things Tamiel is building. They have clever hands with long fingers that produce the most extraordinary things, wonders Aziraphale is constantly struggling to reconcile with reality. How can beauty so clear and radiant be the result of only one being's work? Aziraphale thinks, without a shred of the irony that has not yet been invented, that their friend is the most glorious entity in all Creation.

"But doesn't it bother you? Following something you don't really know anything about?" They run those deft fingers through their hair, scattering starlight as they go, and Aziraphale realizes this is really bothering them.

Aziraphale tries to find the words that might help, but finds they cannot relate to the sensation. Why would they question the Plan? It is as it is and there is nothing more that needs to be said about it. So, hoping that hearing those thoughts aloud might help, Aziraphale shakes their head and says, "No, all I need do it follow the Plan and the Lord will take care of me. I do not need to know the details." Aziraphale is not entirely honest as they speak. They aren't lying, that also hasn't been invented yet, but they are leaving out an important fact.

"Why not?" Aziraphale has never been able to deny their friend even the smallest request and so they sigh and say what they had not said before.

"Because, I have you and I have the Host and I have the Lord and I don't need to know the details because I trust that between us all the full picture will be filled in as it must." They nod to themself as they say it, pleased with how well the thought came out.

"That's," the other pauses and looks out to the vast expanse which stretches before them. They swallow and continue, "That's a whole lotta trust."

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, but I think you, all of you, are worthy of it."

Their friend stills, their nervous movements slowing and stopping. Out in the inky blackness, Aziraphale can see a distant star explode to life.

"You mean that?"

Aziraphale steps forward and takes their hand. "I would never lie to you, my dear friend," they say, "I trust that you will always do the right thing, whatever that may be, even if I don't realize it's the right thing at the time. I trust you to always come tell me about it as soon as you're able and I trust that I will be learning from you for a great many eons yet."

The other sniffs and wipes at their eyes with their free hand.

"Yeah, well," they say, sounding a tad waterlogged, "Back at ya."

Aziraphale chuckles, "I don't, however, trust that you will ever be better with words. It is only by our Lord's good grace that you were not designated a messenger."

"Praise be," they mumble. Then, they seem to compose themselves and their attention turns back to the sky before them. "I rather like the stars too much to be spending my time ferrying messages about anyway."

"Oh, I don't know. I think you'll send the humans messages in your own way."

Their friend laughs. "Yeah!" They affect a stodgy voice that sounds alarmingly close to Gabriel when they're on a tear, "Lo, and the shepherd looked upon the star and the ball of gas informed him he had overeaten at supper."

Aziraphale joins his laughter, "No, not that, or I suppose not only that. It is important to remind them not to overeat. I heard Michael telling someone that the humans are going to be quite prone to weight gain." they step slightly closer to their friend, "But, I was thinking more messages of hope and peace and encouragement to reach just a little higher, a little farther because there's so much beauty out there to find and touch and it was all hung for you by an angel who loves you very much."

Their fried is very still. "Oh," they say, "Well, sure. I mean, I guess. I do love them an awful lot." They sigh, "I just have so many questions and everyone keeps telling me that I don't need to ask them because the Plan is absolute and if I just do as I'm told it'll all be fine."

"Well, I may not have very many answers," Aziraphale says, "But I am always happy to hear your questions."

The smile they receive is radiant and overtly loving and it's enough to send Aziraphale's mind reeling back to the present moment. He blinks and the memory is gone, retreating back to the depths of his mind to be called forth and examined from every angle when he is alone. His heart is full and he is quite sure he's glowing.

"Angel?" Crowley asks, "Are you hearing me?"

"Of course I am," Aziraphale says and it is true. Because now, with the love he had felt all those eons ago echoing through the entirety of his being, he can't help but hear the reflected love in Crowley.

Crowley who Fell for asking too many innocent questions.

Crowley who is comfortable and secure enough to ask Aziraphale each and every question that comes to mind.

Crowley who will never again know a Universe in which he is not loved and treasured for being the singular, spectacular facet of Creation that he is.

Crowley who is sitting up and lifting his sunglasses to better see Aziraphale. His relaxed smile is beginning to fade and Aziraphale cannot allow that.

He gestures ambiguously with one hand and says, "Sorry, I was, ah- I was just remembering something I'd forgotten."

"Oh?" Crowley allows himself to go boneless against the tree again. The late summer cicadas scream into the setting sun and Aziraphale finds himself wondering how many exoskeletons the Them will have found for Anathema this week[1]. "Anything interesting?"

Aziraphale's smile is radiant.

"No," he says because he does not wish to ruin this moment with talk of Heaven, "Only an old memory of you and I."

Crowley hums. He's watching the ducks again.

Eventually, with thoughts of the messages that the stars were intended to convey drifting through his mind, Aziraphale has a realization. There is nothing, no single atom, in the Universe that is not a part of the Plan. The knowledge used to bother him; how can there be free will if everything was planned for from the Beginning? But, now, after the Apocalypse and after loving Crowley, he thinks he understands. It does not take away free will to include the whole of Creation in the Plan. It simply acknowledges that each and every being, each blade of grass and rebellious demon, plays a role in the grand dance. The Plan is an ever shifting, ever adapting thing- a great collaborative effort that only a select few are blessed with the ability to view in its entirety. God did not tell her Host how to be any more than she told the grass how to grow. But, sometimes-

He watches as one of the ducks disappears below the water. A quick glance tells him Crowley was looking at that duck as well. Aziraphale holds his breath.

After only a few seconds the duck reappears, happily holding a snail in its beak.

Aziraphale smiles. Sometimes God gave them a little nudge towards a better path, towards the one that might make them happiest.

"I think," he says slowly and carefully, "that ducks, these ducks at least, were put here just so you might ask that question."

Crowley groans, the light hearted sort of groan that can only speak to immense adoration of the thing being groaned at.

"I swear if you say the _ducks _are ineffable, I'll scream," he warns.

Aziraphale turns a page in his book and smiles. "I would never say that, dear." He really wouldn't say it, but he can and does think it.

He sends a quick prayer of thanks and understanding upwards. Then, he glances down at his book and makes a rapid decision. He stands and, tossing the book down on the worn blanket he'd been using to keep the damp from his trousers, crosses the short distance between himself and Crowley.

"Budge up there," he says. He taps Crowley's side with the toe of his shoe. Crowley opens one eye. He scoots slightly to the side, leaving just enough space for Aziraphale to settle back against the tree beside him. Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand and intertwines their fingers before letting them fall back to the place where their thighs touch.

"I love you," he says. When he says those words these days he is very careful to speak slowly and firmly, so that Crowley cannot disbelieve him no matter what lies his mind tries to peddle.

Today is a good day because Crowley's face lights up from within. He struggles to speak for only a bare moment before he says, "I love you too, angel." Then, his soft smile turns mischievous, "Even if I half suspect you just had a miniature existential crisis about the bleeding ducks."

Aziraphale laughs, kisses his cheek, and does not correct him.

They have all the time in the Universe after all.

* * *

[1] Entomologists among you might note that cicadas in the UK are endangered. This is not the case for the area around Tadfield where there are three beings who believe with all their hearts that summer should have cicadas and so, without overt effort on their parts, the population is thriving


	8. From Rot We Sinners Grow

A/N: Something a tad more introspective to end the week on. This has been super fun, thank you all for your comments and kudos throughout!

**Chapter 8: From Rot We Sinners Grow**

Despite what some of the Host might desire, Aziraphale is an angel and he is not Fallen. More than that, he is an angel and he was sculpted by God's hands. She took the very aether and warmed it between Her fingers until it was pliable and then She carefully shaped it into what would become them (and later, when granted a corporation, what would become him). She gave them many eyes and soft curls and wings that trailed golden light in their wake, and when She had finished giving them all of that, She breathed upon them and gave them Life.

Aziraphale is an angel, but more than that, Aziraphale is a being who was granted Life and the ability to choose how to live that life.

On the wall of Eden, having just failed in his first given assignment, Aziraphale faced a choice, the first choice to be made by an angel since the Fall. On one hand, there was sin which new and exciting, though he would not know that for a while yet. On the other, there was the only life Aziraphale had yet known, a life of piety and virtue and terrifically bad angelic fashion. Without even realizing he faced a choice, Aziraphale took one look at the nervous demon at his side and chose sin. He has never looked back or regretted that choice.

His feelings for Crowley are a chaotic tangle of every possible sin humans have dreamt up (and a great many that are not expressible in human terms but which would make even the most stolid of angels blush).

He lusts after Crowley, after the connection, the closeness (and yes, at times, the flesh). In Rome, his eyes trail up the line of the demon's throat and he forgets to listen to the words that struggle from his mouth. He's been swallowing back untoward thoughts for millennia before he realizes it and by that point he's far too fond of the way Crowley walks and the cascade of his hair and the shine in his eyes to give any of it up in favor of more traditionally angelic desires.

He's envious of the time Crowley spends with others even as he encourages the demon to make connections to the world. He wants every moment of Crowley's life to be his and his alone, though he loves the demon far too much to act on that desire. Instead, he smiles and he suggests ways Crowley might engage with the wider world and he watches with a green and glowing heart.

He's at turns mournful and furious on Crowley's behalf that their original home would hurt him so and still ask so much at every turn. He rages in his mind when Crowley flinches away from the casual blessings humans throw about without thought. His fingers ache for the hilt of a sword when he sees the scars his beloved hides away. His prayers to his Maker turn to diatribes and invectives and his feels no guilt.

His pride is a simple thing- he glows with pleasure each time he thinks of having won his demons' heart (though at times he's not sure he deserves it).

He's greedy, hoarding smiles and laughs and surreptitious pictures and soft morning kisses and scales in the sunlight and time, oh he hoards time most of all. He steals little moments by ordering the most complex dishes in restaurants and lingering in doorways. He pauses before he speaks to savor the way Crowley leans forward, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side and he keeps that second for only himself.

He's glutinous, oh he's a glutton for it all, always hungry for more more _more _; he wants to taste Crowley's breath on his breath and the shampoo the demon uses when he's feeling especially disconnected from the world and the sheen on his brow when he forgets to not sweat and the way _I love you _curls his tongue and tastes like honey and figs and wine aged to perfection and he wants to never stop consuming any of it.

He thinks when he deigns to think on it at all, that God has not damned him for these sins and so they must not be sins, or if they are they must the ones She approves of. He rather likes that idea, the idea of loving God's creations through sin.

* * *

I also have a lot of thoughts about Crowley and the Virtues, but today's theme was sin so I'll leave those for another time :)


End file.
